


war is colored like love

by michida



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Eventual Romance, Fucked Up, Gen, Heavy Angst, Historical Fantasy, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Moral Ambiguity, Platonic Romance, Violence, War, Worldbuilding, guess the ships!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-05 22:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michida/pseuds/michida
Summary: Just as Mark was born to become the emperor and bring about an age of peace and prosperity, Donghyuck wasbornfor war to make that happen. He is worth a thousand men on the battlefield; swords like rain glance harmlessly off of his skin; volleys of arrows veer away as if they fear him more than he's ever feared them.He was given these divine, matchless gifts so that his reason for war willneversee danger again.





	1. Prologue

“If I didn’t know you any better,” Mark says wryly, “I’d almost think that you’re scared.”

Donghyuck, pacing before him, spins on his heel with a glare. “I’m not _scared_ ,” he huffs. “It’s just that Taeyong hyung quit without warning. There are things that I still needed to do before getting promoted to your Ring.”

Mark arches a brow. “What things could be more important than your loyalty to your emperor?”

“Plenty of things,” Donghyuck retorts. “The _both_ of you barely gave me any warning. Who do you think has to train _my_ successor?”

“I thought you’ve been training him?” Mark points out. “You know, Jisung’s more capable than you think he is.”

“No, I know he’s capable,” Donghyuck says quickly. “He has talent. It’s obvious that his raw potential exceeds all of ours—but if he could at least try to tap into it… Talent is useless if you don’t _use_ it. What good is a pacifist on the battlefield?”

Mark’s lips quirk up. “He must seem like a pacifist to a bloodthirsty punk like you.”

Donghyuck pauses, looking affronted. “Bloodthirsty?”

“You know your kill count recently surpassed Taeyong hyung’s? Taeil hyung was really upset,” Mark says. “That’s seriously impressive. And concerning. Taeyong hyung’s lived half a decade longer than you."

“That’s only what’s on paper. Taeyong hyung doesn’t keep count,” Donghyuck says, “and you know it.”

“You know why though,” Mark says, and Donghyuck quiets.

Of course they both know. After a decade of wars, Taeyong has come to abhor his bloodstained title; Youngho recommended to him that he leave the Ring for his own sake, so he asked Donghyuck to succeed him a few years earlier than planned.Word spread like wildfire in all of the lands that Lee Taeyong has relinquished his place in the Emperor’s Ring. But his name will still be feared in the mortal realm. Hell’s General.

“And you know,” Mark continues. “Taeil hyung was against you joining the Ring. He still is.”

“Same with Doyoung hyung,” Donghyuck says with a shrug.

“If,” Mark says hesitantly, apologetically, “if only you could have become an adult first...“

Donghyuck makes a face at him. “Don’t get all maudlin on me now, hyung,” he says. “I’m fine with becoming your sixth General. I’m worried about Jisung taking my place.”

“You should be worried about that first thing too,” Mark scolds him, but he reclines on the dais. “But tell me your worries about Jisung. As your generous emperor, I will listen.”

Donghyuck seats himself at the edge of the dais a respectful distance away, criss-crossing his legs. He holds his chin in his hand thoughtfully.

“If you insist, oh revered emperor,” Donghyuck sighs. He looks unusually open; his troubled expression is honest. “We returned from a border skirmish in the East recently. The trespassing band was a scouting team, so we couldn’t let them get back with the information. But Jisungie… He couldn’t bear to kill them after we interrogated them.”

“Where are they now?” Mark asks.

Donghyuck looks at him seriously.

“I killed them. It was that or bring them back as prisoners.”

Mark grimaces. In their youth, Taeyong had trained Donghyuck, having already chosen his successor before he even ascended to the previous emperor’s Ring. This spoke to an action that Donghyuck was _taught_ —that prisoners from weaker countries have no value. This isn’t something that either of them can address in just one sitting, even if Taeyong himself has long since changed from that mindset. Donghyuck can sense that Mark has tensed. Mark can tell that Donghyuck doesn’t think anything of his own actions.

“And Jisung’s reaction bothered you?” Mark urges. “I think I can work with that. Showing a little mercy isn’t weakhearted.” 

“That’s not the problem,” Donghyuck says flatly. “I relented and let Jisung have his way. He went to untie their ropes and then one of the desperate bastards landed a blow on him with a hidden blade. So I paid them all back in kind.”

“Jisung was injured? This wasn’t in your report,” Mark says.

“He wasn’t injured,” Donghyuck explains. “He was wearing his armor. But you know what he said to me when I drew my sword? ‘Hyung, wait. I’m not hurt, please don’t kill them.’ What if those men came across one of our civilians? The moment they showed aggression, it was my _duty_ , hyung. I couldn’t let them walk free.” 

It's hard to say who was right. It's easy to sympathize with Jisung and shy from taking a life that you know you cannot return. But he can't help feeling that Donghyuck wasn't  _wrong_ in his intention.

“All I can say is that it’s regretful the ending couldn’t have been different,” Mark finally says, and Donghyuck frowns at him. “What were you planning to do with Jisung?”

“Maybe knock some sense into him,” Donghyuck shrugs. “I don’t know yet. No matter how much he trains his body for war, I know it won’t change his heart.”

“Wise of you to say,” Mark says. “I have a suggestion.”

“What is it?”

“Jisung understands the purpose of war. And he’s been told by countless people _why_ war has a purpose,” Mark says, “so I don’t doubt that he knows. But he needs to _feel_ bound to this purpose, whether he agrees with it or not. So show him why you fight, Donghyuck.”

Donghyuck doesn't respond immediately. Mark instead takes inventory of his features, the way he seems to be in deep consideration. There is a mess of visceral emotions on his face, but knowing that he feels emotions differently from Mark, it leaves his expression open but unintelligible. Mark used to be able to tell what Donghyuck was thinking; he wonders when that changed. 

“I don’t think I’m a good example,” Donghyuck says after a while. “He won’t understand my reason.”

“And what exactly is your reason?” Mark says, interest piqued.

Donghyuck is nicknamed the God of War for his military prowess and divine luck on the battlefield. If not for his age back then, the previous emperor's advisors would have appointed him to the Ring. But Taeil and Youngho were looking out for him and protested the decision, even if Donghyuck didn't see it that way at the time. His dedication is still nominally to the emperor, as all imperial officers are. But before Mark took the throne, he always wondered what Donghyuck’s reason could be that he continued to ruthlessly carry out every war campaign the old emperor handed to him, without fail, especially when he hated the man. And their paths were different from childhood, Mark and him. Even now, sometimes they can’t understand each other.

Donghyuck opens his mouth—and sighs. “Don’t worry about it, hyung.”

“I _want_ to know, Donghyuck,” Mark protests.

Donghyuck's lips quirk up. “I don’t want you to know,” he replies playfully.

“Is it for love? Glory?” Mark demands as Donghyuck gets to his feet, ignoring him. “Hey, tell me—your emperor commands you!”

“Behead me for treason!” Donghyuck yells back to him, heading for the ornate sliding doors.

“Don’t think I won’t!”

“Good luck completing your Ring then!”

Donghyuck always has to have the last word. Mark huffs in frustration as he closes the doors behind him.

After a while, a helpless, exasperated smile still makes its way onto his face. Donghyuck has a way of temporarily relieving one's worries, but Mark's fears aren't so easily assuaged this time. It's already frustrating enough that this is a situation that can't be helped. Something's going to change, and he can feel it in his bones that it's for the worse.


	2. I.1 Youngho

When Donghyuck was only ten, he saved Youngho.

It was an afternoon in the cold November sun—Youngho found himself wavering, wondering if he was at the end. He tried to rationalize that a man who is not whole can still fulfill his duty to the country, that sick men can find a way. The emperor was not who they thought he was. Even lost, Youngho wanted his students to learn that, so that they could guide themselves.

“Studying politics is for Mark hyung,” Donghyuck pointed out, uncharacteristically responsive for once. He usually passively listened to Youngho’s discipline, but today, he finally spoke up. “I’m not going to be an emperor. And it’s boring.”

Youngho decided against telling Donghyuck that it’s good to have knowledge. “Then what exactly interests you?” he asked, and Donghyuck adopted a thoughtful expression.

“Janggi,” he decided after thinking about it. “Oh—hyung, you’re really good at it, aren't you? I want to learn that.”

As long as they were connecting—Youngho bowed his head in ready acquiescence. “Very well. But may I ask why?”

“Taeyong hyung said that a good general has to know strategy. But I couldn’t win him in janggi when we played together, so I have to get stronger.” He clasped his hands together in prayer. “Hyung, you beat Taeyong hyung, right? Please teach me how to win.”

Youngho got up to find his janggi set. “Taeyong has been playing longer than you have,” he pointed out. “It’s natural that he would win in your first game.”

“But it was a crushing defeat,” Donghyuck replied petulantly. “It was so bad that he said to find him only when I become strong enough to beat him.”

“He said that?”

“ _You are weak_ ,” Donghyuck intoned. “ _Challenge me again only when you stand a chance_.”

Youngho did not know enough of Taeyong to gauge if he’d say something like that. From what he did know—Lee Taeyong was a young commander rapidly rising in the army ranks, well on his way to earning a moniker for his prowess in war; the Ring already was speaking of adding him to their ranks, yet he only just came of age. To a boy like Donghyuck, he must seem like an unreachable ideal.

“He shouldn’t have said that,” Youngho settled for saying. “There are other ways to encourage you to improve.”

Donghyuck shrugged. “It’s Taeyong hyung’s way. I’ll pay him back.”

“Of course,” Youngho said, setting the board down between them. He let Donghyuck arrange his own pieces, silently observing.

“Hyung,” Donghyuck said after a while. “Are you okay?”

Youngho blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“You seem different,” Donghyuck replied with a shrug. “You weren’t riled up when I wasn’t paying attention last week.”

“Maybe I’ve learned to cut my losses,” Youngho said.

Donghyuck squinted at him. “Then why do you look like that?”

Youngho had a feeling that he knew what Donghyuck meant. Donghyuck, critically and silently observant, had picked up on his feelings of listlessness.

“The winter is a miserable season,” Youngho answered. “I’m waiting for the spring.”

The door, at that moment, slid open.

“Then you can wait in hell,” a voice replied, and Youngho whipped his head in that direction—finding a masked man. His eyes widened at the glint of a silver knife. The man spared a single glance at Donghyuck before advancing towards Youngho.

“What business do you have here?” Youngho asked, getting to his feet. He gathered himself in front of Donghyuck, and the man narrowed his eyes. They were beady black; and when Youngho tried to search for—anything—in that gaze, the opaqueness of obsidian refused him.

“His majesty has no need for a straying man. You served him well.”

“Hyung,” Donghyuck whispered. “What are you doing?”

Youngho reached behind to touch Donghyuck—to calm him. He stared at the man before him. “He sent you, then?” he said calmly. “And what do you plan to do with the boy?”

The man stared at him wordlessly. And then he raised a leg, and kicked Youngho back into the table.

His breath caught in his lungs painfully, his lungs locking, and he choked, hacking. Pain ran up his back and along his rib, stabbing into his chest. Donghyuck had moved from behind him in an instant— _Donghyuck_ —

A strangled gargling filled the room, and Youngho, blood turned to ice, tried to reorient himself, tried to get back into the situation. A whisper passed through the room, a _don’t look_ , but he pushed himself up, coughing and wheezing desperately, clutching at his ribs.

 _Donghyuck_.

Donghyuck—

—removed his hand from the bone knife. The assassin slumped to the floor, and he bent down to unmask the man, whose face was contorted in the grimace of death, blood pooling into the hollow of his neck from his mouth. Donghyuck stared wordlessly down, and Youngho could barely manage to tell him to _look away_ —

And then he took the back of the collar and began to drag, leaving bloody anchor trails in his wake as he made for the sliding door. His arm was splashed with someone else’s red.

“Wait—Donghyuck,” Youngho gasped for breath, trying to reach for him, collapsing to his knees. “Don’t, let me—”

“Hyung, it’s okay,” Donghyuck said, returning before Youngho even made it to the door. He side-stepped Youngho to retrieve the fallen tea cup, and refilled it from the kettle. He placed it before Youngho and squatted down next to his prone form.

Youngho looked up at him. He crossed his arms over his chest defensively and stared wide-eye back, waiting.

“Drink,” Donghyuck insisted when neither of them had moved.

With hesitation, Youngho got into a sitting position and took a sip from the cup, closing his eyes. It happened all too quickly—the way Donghyuck sprang up from his seat and snapped the man’s wrist, then broke his nose—and then at last removed the knife from him and returned it to him through the flesh of his belly. Donghyuck’s soft voice had said to him: “Hyung, don’t look.”

He nearly died then. He wasn’t nearly as shocked as he should have been. His honest body, still trembling in fear, contradicted the dull register in his mind. “Why did you save me?” he asked when he found his voice again.

Donghyuck blinked at him, confused. Then he looked as if he were waiting to be scolded.

“Because,” he answered, meekly dipping his head. “I didn’t want that man to kill you. Nice people don’t deserve to die.”

Despite himself, a laugh escaped him at Donghyuck’s blunt response. “I’m nice?” he asked, surprised to find himself amused, and finally broke out in a smile. He would’ve thought that young boys hated to be lectured, especially considering how much trouble Donghyuck usually got up to—and, in another sense, the fact that Youngho was the imperial tutor.

Donghyuck, seeing him finally smile—for what must have been the first time in weeks—beamed and nodded rapidly, eager to please. “You’re really nice, hyung,” he said, delighted. “You take care of me well. So from now on, you are under my protection. I’ll even protect you from that mean old geezer.” That mean old geezer meaning the emperor.

“Won’t you get into trouble for defying him?” Youngho asked him.

Donghyuck leaned in close and pitched his voice into a low whisper. “If I could kill him, I would. But then Mark hyung would be troubled. So I can't—until he gives me a reason to.”

This sobered him quickly.

Youngho slowly came to a realization. He found himself disinclined to stay lost. A boy had just killed a man. If he could not find a way, he could _make_ his way in a world that needed direction. So Youngho took in a deep breath. And then he placed his hand in Donghyuck's hair. Donghyuck blinked up at him owlishly—and then spluttered when Youngho ruffled and messed it up.

"I declare you to be under  _my_  protection. Therefore," Youngho said, "I will also protect you from the mean old geezer. So if he gives you any reasons, come to me first."

Donghyuck choked. "You just called the old man—"

"You said it first," Youngho pointed out. "If you tell him I said it, I'll tell him the truth."

"I won't say anything to him," Donghyuck promised. He added, "But I'm not afraid of him. It's for your sake, hyung."

Youngho's lips twitched. Kids. "Glad that that's settled," he responded, and held out his pinky. "Promise me then?"

"What's the promise?" Donghyuck asked. Youngho gave him a puzzled look. "Taeyong hyung said you always have to know what you're getting into before engaging your opponent."

"Am I your opponent?"

"...No," he said slowly after thinking about it, and linked pinky fingers with Youngho.

"I promise to Youngho hyung that I'll come to him if I'm having trouble," Youngho said.

"I promise to Youngho hyung that I'll come to him if I'm having trouble," Donghyuck repeated.

"And I'll come to Youngho hyung if I'm lonely."

"And I'll come to Youngho hyung if I'm lonely."

"And I'll try to study harder and read the scrolls Youngho hyung assigns."

"And I'll try to—nice try, hyung," Donghyuck said and yanked his finger away.

"But you'll uphold the other two, right?"

To his surprise, Donghyuck didn't give him an instantaneous impish reply. Instead, Donghyuck slowly, quietly told him, "If I come to you when I'm lonely, you'll see me too often, hyung."

"Then come see me anyway," Youngho answered—more for himself than Donghyuck. "You can come see me even if you're not lonely. Or having trouble."

“Real men don’t go back on their word,” Donghyuck said immediately, frowning at him.

“You’ll only get your proof of my realness if you come see me,” Youngho said nonchalantly, and then Donghyuck finally cracked, convinced of him, and a bright smile spread across his cheeks, his eyes crinkling into happy crescents.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he declared authoritatively, despite his adolescent voice lacking the weight and pitch to intimidate.

Rather than intimidation, Youngho felt careful. He knew, at this moment, with every fiber of his being, that he was just given something very precious.

 

 

 

 

As promised, Donghyuck came to him often.

But despite threatening an impressive frequency, Youngho felt as if he didn’t see Donghyuck as often as he liked. The boy would come by for tea, and Youngho would teach him janggi, three times a week. A testament to their rapidly growing closeness—Donghyuck finally relented in doing Youngho’s assignments—if Youngho was the one reading out the scroll to him.

(“Are you sleeping?” Youngho thundered mid-scroll, mock-affronted.

“No, hyung,” Donghyuck answered contentedly, curling up further into himself on the floor cushion. “I’m listening. Keep going.”

And yet he did well anyway. He really had been listening.)

Donghyuck was a child. Youngho, gifted with self-expression and elocution, couldn’t find any other way to describe him. He was a young boy. He should have been given the chance to feel like one. So when the emperor had turned his insidious gaze to Donghyuck, Youngho couldn’t let it fly. Donghyuck may have been powerful enough to take on grown men, but hell would freeze over before Youngho let a twelve year old lead an army into battle. So in every council meeting, he refuted the emperor’s decree. The boy is too young, he is not ready, the men will not follow a child—

“What right do you have to speak these things of him?” one of the Generals demanded. “The boy is a _prodigy_. He was trained by Taeyong-ssi himself. He has proven himself in combat—and you know that the stubbornness of fiery youth can also boost the men’s morale.”

“You task a child with the responsibility of two thousand psyches,” Youngho retorted. “Think to yourself how ludicrous that is.”

The meeting ended with the emperor’s displeased resolution—Taeyong would lead the charge. Youngho breathed more easily when the emperor left the room, and lifted his head from his bow, only to find Lee Taeyong’s blank stare pinning him to his seat. His face was utterly unreadable. Youngho broke their eye contact first and made to leave, bidding Taeil farewell until dinner.

Taeyong followed him out of the chamber and easily kept pace with him.

“Taeyong-ssi,” Youngho greeted warily.

“Youngho-ssi,” Taeyong responded. “Your concerns about Donghyuck were heard well.” _Concerns_ , Youngho thought wryly. “As you recently have been close to him, you must have observed him. It must seem to you that he still lacks leadership for you to protest the emperor's call.”

“Not at all,” Youngho answered. “Donghyuck is extremely talented and fully capable.”

Taeyong’s gaze turned razor-sharp with suspicion and displeasure. The vicinity plunged in degrees. “Then why?” he asked. “You argued passionately against his promotion.”

“He’s twelve,” Youngho said incredulously. “I argued passionately against it because he’s still young.”

Taeyong frowned. “Then your shortsighted prejudice is due to age.”

He didn’t want to get into a heated conversation with Taeyong about this. But after hearing this, his temper flared anyway. _“Prejudice?”_ Youngho hissed. “You believe that I’m shortsighted? I intend for Donghyuck to live a longer life than the one you’vegiven him.”

At this, Taeyong flinched back, and Youngho paused, startled. As quickly as his expression was overcome, he schooled it again, so Youngho couldn’t get a good read on his face. But Taeyong shook his head.

“Very well,” he said. “I don’t know what your intentions are. But be careful where you choose to meddle.”

 

 

 

 

Because Youngho chose to be honest with Donghyuck two years ago, he decided then to tell Donghyuck what happened at that council. Donghyuck surprised him in turn.

“Taeyong hyung already told me everything,” Donghyuck said with a shrug.

“I see,” Youngho sighed, and Donghyuck peered close at his expression, brow furrowed.

The boy looked worried himself, lips pursed together in a troubled frown. It didn’t suit his face—and it just wouldn’t do for him to look so anxious, so Youngho pressed a hand to his forehead and smoothed out the wrinkles. Donghyuck half-heartedly struggled against him.

“Why the long face?” Youngho asked him.

“I,” Donghyuck said, pushing at his hand, “don’t know what to do if you and Taeyong hyung don’t get along.”

“Get along? We get along.”

Donghyuck arched a brow. It was reminiscent of Taeyong. “Hyung, he thinks you hate him.”

“That’s not true. I don’t hate him. I think it’s more likely that he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“See? Then it’s fine. Neither of us hates each other.”

“But you don’t _like_ each other.”

“When Taeyong-ssi gives me a reason,” Youngho promised, “then I’ll try my best. But for now, don’t worry.” He paused and realized that he hadn’t considered Donghyuck’s opinion on the matter. “Do you feel that I shouldn’t have intervened?”

Donghyuck shrugged again. “I don’t care,” he said. “And I think Taeyong hyung’s relieved that I’m not going either. But mainly, if I left, then I wouldn’t be able to watch over you, hyung.”

“Please take care of me then,” said Youngho, and Donghyuck looked up at him and smiled.

 

 

 

 

But maybe he had misunderstood Taeyong that day. And for the past few years. Taeyong had been suspicious of him, but not indignant. He didn’t think that Youngho was slighting his dongsaeng, and by extension, slighting him. Sometimes he found himself wondering at the way Taeyong had flinched, and then how he had withdrawn after Youngho had scolded him. And then Youngho began to search for signs of that subtle stress every time they met, and found that when he really _looked_ , Taeyong’s careful lack of expression practically screamed anxiety.

So when Youngho approached Taeyong months after, it was finally Taeyong who seemed eager to escape first.

“You could have asked directly what my intentions were rather than assuming the worst,” Youngho said as Taeyong tried to out-walk him. “I would have answered forthrightly.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Taeyong answered curtly. “If you don’t mind, Youngho-ssi—”

“And you were bothered in today’s council,” Youngho continued. “Do you dread leading the campaign?”

Taeyong turned on his heel abruptly, and Youngho stopped short of colliding with him.

“Why do you care?” he demanded. “What business of it is yours?”

There was no denial. But at Taeyong’s unexpected vehemence, Youngho tried to regroup. “Why would I not care? It is my role to advise,” he ended up saying. “And even a war general can need protection.”

“Why would a war general need the protection of an imperial advisor?” Taeyong asked. There was no anger in his voice; he seemed genuinely confused as to how someone like Youngho could possibly protect someone like him. As to why Youngho could possibly want to protect him.

He seemed tired above all. There was distrust in his gaze. All men were the emperor’s men to him. The question he really was asking of Youngho was—

“You mean how could a war general be protected by an imperial advisor—am I correct?”

“Correct,” Taeyong said bluntly. He resumed his stride, and Youngho followed him. “I know now that you meant to shield Donghyuck from the emperor's designs. You have my gratitude for looking out for him. But even you cannot sway the man on matters concerning me. And I told you before—be careful where you choose to meddle.”

“I’ve chosen carefully,” Youngho answered sincerely, stopping to let Taeyong outpace him, and Taeyong sucked in a sharp breath, gave him one desperate glare, and left him there.

 

 

 

 

It took five years after that encounter to finally understand Taeyong. And then it took another three years to get to this point today—

“Do you know that you two are exactly alike?” Youngho muses, and Taeyong grimaces as he enters and closes the sliding door behind him.

“He came by?” Taeyong guesses, sounding anxious. “He hasn’t come to see me yet.”

“And you haven’t gone to see him either.”

Taeyong sighs quietly. “Good point.”

Youngho sets out two porcelain cups and gestures for Taeyong to sit across from him. Taeyong obliges with a respectful nod and watches Youngho pour the tea, brow furrowed. Youngho can’t even say anything about the severe expression marring his features—he’s handsome even when he’s troubled. And he’s _very_ deeply troubled, by the look of it. The sound of his restless leg makes Youngho pause.

“Quit that or you’ll bust your knee,” he says, and Taeyong gives him a sheepish look and stops. He passes a cup of tea to the most feared man in the land.

“I thought you would have more of a reaction,” Taeyong says carefully, taking a modest sip.

Youngho arches a brow over the rim of his own cup. “Was I not the one who recommended you resign? I could anticipate what would inevitably follow. At least Doyoung can keep an eye on him this way.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“Am I?” Youngho says pleasantly.

“Aren’t you?” Taeyong returns.

“I had hopes that you wouldn’t single out your dongsaeng yet again.” Youngho shrugs. “But Haechanie wouldn’t take it lying down either if you’d overlooked him as a successor. It was a no-win situation. I wasn’t expecting anything different.”

Taeyong hesitates at the sharpness of Youngho’s subtle disappointment. Then he says quietly, “Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry at you yet,” Youngho answers, and wryness spreads across Taeyong’s features. “But I  _will_ be. He’s excited about it even if he has reservations. His tally already swamped yours with that last campaign. He’s  _five years_ younger than you.”

Taeyong’s solemn gaze flickers away. It’s one of his tells, when he feels cornered. “I haven’t properly kept track,” he says glumly. “I’m sure Donghyuck is still well below my ledger lines.”

Youngho knows—but not when the nightmares started—and there certainly wasn’t a defining moment when Taeyong finally cracked. But Youngho could see it in him before he even saw it in himself. In the end, sealing away one’s compassion poisons the self. Living in constant denial seeps into your self-identity; you forget how to perceive yourself. Taeyong couldn't understand why he began to flinch at the sight of red. He drowned in his crimson dreams and woke drenched in the twilight, alone. He couldn’t find respite even in sleep; his dreaded duty to his post awaited him in every waking moment. And when Youngho finally got past the walls he’d so carefully constructed and broke him down, Taeyong shed bitter tears and asked Youngho— _how can I protect him like_ _ **this**_ _?_

Youngho softens at the way Taeyong looks lost again, like that day. As a gesture of contrition, he offers a topic change. “You came here for a reason.”

“You said you had something for me.”

“Your new robes,” Youngho confirms, getting up to retrieve them. “Welcome to the emperor’s gossip circle.”

“It’s not actually a gossip circle, is it?” Taeyong asks warily, getting to his feet to receive them from Youngho.

“If you come in here and order us around like your soldiers,” Youngho threatens, “it might become one. And the topic will be  _you_.”

“I’m ready to put that aside,” Taeyong responds sincerely. The banter goes right over his head. “I’m no longer a General.”

Youngho shakes his head. “I was teasing you, you know. Don’t be so quick. Your perspective is valuable. In fact, we’ve never had a man in both spheres before. You’re the first to have been in a Ring  _and_ a Circle,” he says thoughtfully. His eyes twinkle as he adds, “And I’m sure Mark will be more inclined to listen to you.”

Taeyong makes a face as he shrugs on his pristine robes. It drapes flatteringly across his lean frame and softens his battle-hardened silhouette and the sharpness of his gaze. He looks immaculate in ivory—Youngho doesn’t allow his gaze to linger. It’s almost a little infuriating. But it suits him more than the black habit of the imperial army.

“You know,” Taeyong says, breaking his train of thought. “I really doubt that. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Youngho laughs. “You’re saying Mark doesn’t answer to  _you_?”

“He’s the emperor now,” Taeyong answers dryly. “He answers only to the higher powers.”

“That explains why he gets on so well with the God of War,” Youngho agrees. “Generation gap.”

“Did you just,” Taeyong says slowly, sounding pained, “imply that I’m old?”

“I’m  _older_ than you,” Youngho reminds him. “But yes, that’s exactly what I’m implying. You’re far too old-fashioned! You could learn a few things about modernity from your boisterous dongsaeng. Even if you taught Haechanie everything that he knows. At least he knows how to have fun.”

“I can have  _fun_.”

“You sat with Yuta over janggi and drew parallels from every stage to one of your old campaigns. The  _both_ of you. And then you, Doyoung, and I went out drinking under the moon, but you two got into a discussion on morality and ended up bumming yourselves out. That was the driest yet simultaneously most tearful conversation I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I swore that night I’d never drink with you two again. When’s the last time you’ve even had a good laugh?”

Taeyong adopts a mildly embarrassed expression and shrugs. “My sense of humor is poor,” he retorts defensively. “I’m not a fun person. But I know how to have fun.”

“If you were around Haechanie a little more,” Youngho sighs. “Hell, even if you were around Mark, but not that stone-faced guardian façade—you really should try to bridge the distance between you and your two dongsaeng now that you’re no longer Hell’s General.”

“ _Distance_ ,” Taeyong splutters, but stops short. Then he reluctantly acknowledges it to himself. “I suppose I wouldn’t know what to say in conversation. …Maybe there really is a generation gap.”

“Haechanie’s a good conversationalist. And witty too,” Youngho promises. “He could find anything to talk about with you. Especially since he looks up to you the most.”

“He looks up to you,” Taeyong insists. “Not me.”

Youngho shakes his head, but Taeyong stares at him with stubborn conviction.

“Trust me,” Youngho says softly. “It’s you.”

 

 

 

 

There really is no other way to think of it. It is Taeyong.

(“How does he think of me?” Donghyuck asks, after his giddiness dies down. He lies down on the floorboards next to Youngho.

“Are you talking about Taeyong?” Youngho hums, glancing away from his scroll. Donghyuck nods. “How do you mean?”

Donghyuck’s side profile is still that of a boy. His nose scrunches as he makes a face, gathering his thoughts, and then his expression relaxes again. He doesn’t look away from the underside of the eaves, but his eyes are wide and searching. Youngho doesn’t know what answers he sees in the woodwork. But he looks young.

“He agreed to leave the Ring because he hated it,” Donghyuck says slowly, trying to put the pieces together. “Now that I’m taking his place…” He wiggles his toes in the air; the open garden adjacent to Youngho’s quarters is just beyond. “What does that mean?”

Youngho waits. Either Donghyuck will continue reasoning it out to himself, or he’s waiting for Youngho to explain the mystery that is Lee Taeyong. Donghyuck is indeed patiently waiting.

“It means,” he says reluctantly, “that he thinks you are the most suited to succeed him.”

“But what does that  _mean?”_ Donghyuck asks, frustrated, and Youngho knows what he’s asking. It’s in the tenseness of his jaw, the lines of his furrowed brow. Does Taeyong only see him as the God of War?

“He didn’t want to, you know,” Youngho says.

“I know it was getting hard,” Donghyuck quickly interjects. “And it’s good that hyung isn’t a General anymore. But whether he’s in the Ring or not, Taeyong hyung doesn’t make careless decisions. He had to have thought hard about it before finally choosing me.”

“Then you should ask him yourself, Haechanie,” Youngho tells him gently. “If you really want to know so much.”

“But it’s a stupid question,” Donghyuck admits to himself. “I don’t think Taeyong hyung will understand what I’m trying to ask. I don’t…even know what answer I’m looking for.”

“I think you’re underestimating him. But if you want to ask him, I asked him to come by and pick up his new robes. He’ll be here soon.”

Donghyuck pulls himself up and shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, hyung,” he says. “I need to speak with Jisung.”

“Oh? How adult-like of you. Getting your arrangements in order?”

“It’s such bad timing,” Donghyuck confesses with a sigh. “Right as Renjun’s leaving too.”

Youngho remembers hearing about that. The young commander of the West could no longer ride into battle. The bone of his knee had been kicked in by his own steed when he tried to evacuate his men. He’s Donghyuck’s age—but whereas Donghyuck will join the Ring, Renjun will join Mark’s circle of advisors along with Taeyong.

According to Kun, Renjun isn’t too torn up about it though. Jeno, Jaemin, and Donghyuck give him the kind of fight that he wants. But that leaves Chenle—

“It’s not that they’re too young,” Donghyuck says, picking up right where Youngho’s thoughts trailed off. “But they just…don’t have it in them for war. Yet. Even if Chenle hangs around Lucas hyung, Lucas hyung’s bloodlust isn’t going to rub off on him. Renjun will literally beat up anyone and Chenle’s been training under him for years. He barely reacts when we mess with him.”

That does sound like Chenle alright—even-tempered, amiable to his hyungs. But this Chenle is also the same Chenle who’s never lost a single game of janggi to any of them, the same Chenle who trespassed into their domain four years ago and slaughtered two of Jaehyun’s patrols before they finally detained him. The last emperor employed him as an assassin. If Chenle’s rediscovered his appreciation of life, he’ll make a fine commander, and Youngho will rest easy. Come to think of it, it was really Jisung who got Chenle to come around, when the boy was down there in the dungeons.

“And don’t get me started on Jisung,” Donghyuck says.

“You can start if you want,” Youngho teases him. “But weren’t you going to go find him?”

Donghyuck’s eyes widen and he springs to his feet with a hurried breath, gathering his sandals clumsily as he goes. “That’s right! Okay—gotta go, hyung. See you!”)

 

 

 

 

That’s how Taeyong leaves him too.

“You need to see Taeil hyung next,” Youngho reminds him after they’ve talked—for gods know how long, about gods know what—and Taeyong blinks at him idly, eyes piercing. His lips part as he tries to remember, and then he nods.

“That’s right,” he says. “See you, then.” Some part of him seems restless and dissatisfied—but the two of them have learned to be honest with each other by now. If Taeyong were ready to tell him, he would.

“Go safely,” Youngho sends him off, and Taeyong’s lips curl up in a small smile as he slides the door shut behind him.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, ‘exactly alike’ isn’t quite right to describe those two. Donghyuck was first shy—and then Youngho earned his childish affection and was proven absolutely wrong. Taeyong seemed the opposite—always, his unsuppressed aura suffocated the room; he had an authoritative stride that ionized the air in his wake. His very presence commanded respect and fear alike. Yet now that Youngho’s come to know him truly, over the course of seven years—he’s found that Taeyong is completely different from general perception. Soft-spoken, uncertain, and quiet. The complete opposite of Donghyuck—loud, loud, and loud.

Above all, the two of them share the dangerous quality of war. And yet, to him, the two of them are the same.

 

 

 

 

The night the late emperor died, Youngho closed the sliding door behind him. The sight of the blood moon was haunting. He already knew as he sealed his only escape that someone else was in his quarters with him.

And he thought that they had finally made progress.

“Will you kill me too, Taeyong-ssi?” Youngho asked calmly.

Taeyong stepped out from the shadow, pale against the rippling silk curtains of the wood latticework. The red moon could not turn his stained blade to silver. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt, bleeding his knuckles white. His voice came out low and harsh.

“If you give me a reason to.”

Youngho wondered briefly if he spared Taeil. He could guess what would happen next. Taeyong would break the old Circle and install hand-picked advisors who he could be sure wouldn’t betray the new young emperor.

“I don’t desire to live in the reign of the tyrant’s second coming,” he said calmly—but even he feared the moment before death.

Taeyong looked overcome with a stab of pain, his hand coming up to his chest, over his heart. But he replied steadily, dipping his head, “That is fine.”

He stepped forward. Youngho forced himself not to back away. His knees threatened to buckle under him.

Taeyong stared Youngho in the eye, raising his hand. Then, with a shaky gaze and tremulous whisper, he said, “This tyrant is not the one who reigns.”

The bloodied blade clattered to the floor. With it, Taeyong went to his knees before Youngho and dry-heaved, wretchedly emptying from a void.

When Youngho kneeled, he could not be sure that Taeyong would spare him. But in that moment, when he reached out, Taeyong, curled in and shaking, did not rebut him—Taeyong’s hand, trembling, sought his own and gripped desperately tight, and that was when Youngho knew.

This was the hand of no tyrant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _> > NEXT TIME ON: What Would Donghyuck Do?_
> 
> (Renjun shoots him an annoyed look. "You're going to die one day," he says. "And it might be by my hand."
> 
> "Yeah, yeah," Donghyuck says, waving him off. "Do you even know who you're talking to? The G—"
> 
> "The guy who made Park Jisung angry enough that he's finally pulled the cold-shoulder card?")


End file.
